


Luigi

by kalijean, SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [43]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1995-1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1997: Turnbull meets the new Detective 'Vecchio' for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luigi

He looked nothing _like_ Detective Vecchio.

"This is highly unorthodox," Inspector Thatcher finally said, not standing up from behind her desk, eying the two men in suits and one man in ragged street clothes. Turnbull was apt to agree, though he didn't say anything and didn't move from where he stood at attention, mostly because he had been in the middle of yet another upbraiding -- a truly spectacular one -- when the men came in.

Constable Fraser's vacation couldn't end soon enough.

Then again... perhaps it could.

The explanation was convoluted at best; something about Detective Vecchio going deep undercover on very short notice, and about how it was vital to his cover that someone continue to act as him. Continue to _be_ him. The problem with that, from Turnbull's vantage, was that this new detective had next to no resemblance to Detective Vecchio. Were they even _trying_?

"Yeah, I know," the man answered for himself, after cutting the suited men off with a glowering look. He had a rather peculiar accent, to go along with rather peculiar looks; it was a strange sensation, actually. Turnbull had the vaguest sensation that he had already met this man somewhere. "But listen, we're gonna make it work best we can. Long as I don't go posing for pictures or, y'know, get into the spotlight, Vecchio's cover will be safe."

Turnbull almost had to choke down a snort at that.

The new detective shot him a look.

Turnbull made a mental note that the man was not an idiot, even if he didn't bear any resemblance to Detective Vecchio, and kept his face schooled.

Thatcher watched that, bemused, then frowned at the man again. "Considering who you will be working with, Detective 'Vecchio', I find it highly improbable that you'll be able to avoid the spotlight." She eyed the men in suits, then shook her head and sighed. "Very well. It's obviously already in motion; of course, we will do anything we have to in order to maintain the cover. Nothing will go wrong on _our_ end."

"That's all we want," one of the men said, smiling at Thatcher in a manner that was certainly too close to a leer. Turnbull resisted the urge to glare at him. Being treated with misogyny was a certain way to make the Inspector more irritable than she already was, due to Fraser's absence and the difficulties of this consulate being so short-staffed.

"So, this the guy?" the Detective asked, thumbing towards Turnbull.

The Inspector's eyebrow spoke volumes. Unfortunately, Turnbull was becoming reasonably fluent in that particular language, and knew full well that she--

Thatcher snorted. "Hardly."

Indeed.

"This is Constable Turnbull. Turnbull, take... Detective 'Vecchio' around and give him the tour."

"Sir," Turnbull answered, turning on his politest duty smile for the Detective. "If you'll just follow me, we can start in the foyer. This building was constructed in 1914, though only recently has it become Canadian territory; before that, our offices were downtown..."

He saw the Detective's eyes glaze over before they even made it to the door, and sighed internally.

 

 

"So what's he like?"

Turnbull had been in mid-sentence, offering the man some refreshment, and the interruption spiked irritation that didn't make it to his face.

"'He', Detective?" Turnbull knew the answer. It was an exercise in patience.

Predictably, the man looked briefly at him as though he were from another planet. "The guy. Fraser."

Turnbull tucked a hand behind his back and looked beyond the man a moment to honestly consider the question.

"Unlikely," was the best answer he had that did not involve something plucked from a roulette wheel of insubordination and hero-worship.

The detective laughed, as though unsure of whether it was meant to be funny, and then shook his head. "Startin' to think Canadians never give a straight answer."

"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that, Detective. Given your current assignment, I'm certain you'll feel right at home." The detective looked vaguely suspicious for a moment; Turnbull stepped through the door toward the Consulate kitchen, and gave the man no time to respond. "Now, then. We have a selection of fine teas, I'm certain after all the upheaval you must be thirsty..."

The eyeroll he got back grated past that rather irritating deja vu.

He didn't wait for a response before making up a cup of tea.

 

 

"Okay, so lemme get this straight. He runs around in that red outfit with a _wolf_ and fights crime like some kinda superhero?"

Turnbull was inwardly pleased with the look of incredulous discomfiture on the detective's face, but he didn't show it. It was quite obvious that this man -- who still did not resemble Detective Vecchio -- was realizing the madness which he was assigned to. "Oh, now, Detective... he's hardly a superhero. As you must know--"

"Wait wait, I don't know anything! Nothing. Nada. Pretend I'm a blank slate." The man paced in agitation, before picking up the tea which he had loaded with a truly inadvisable amount of sugar. "I mean, they told me that things might get a little... y'know, _weird_ , but a train headed for nuclear meltdown? Almost drowning in a _bank vault_?"

"Detective, really. There are perfectly--"

"Shut up, I'm thinking." The man ran a hand over his spiky hair and Turnbull managed -- Lord knew how -- to keep his expression blankly composed.

It was preferable to perhaps shoving a lump of sugar up each nostril and smacking the man soundly upside the head to see if, perhaps, they would shoot back out with enough velocity to shatter on the floor.

"Shit," the man muttered, pausing and staring at his tea, eyes distant and worried.

Truthfully, Turnbull was uncertain as to where this level of irritation had come from, but it was wholly surprising and not entirely unwelcome. Life in Chicago was often a rather slow, almost painful grinding of the days broken only by rare moments of pleasure. His art group was one; he was slow to relax into it, but once he did, he found himself laughing and enjoying art again. Cooking was another -- in fact, he had just been gifted a... well, all right, a very _frilly_ apron from one of his neighbors in return for cooking for her whilst she recovered from a broken wrist. A new album occasionally made him feel bright and happy; there were some fairly talented country stars coming up and the more upbeat songs tended to stick with him for days.

Anything that broke the relentless march of time, paperwork and message-taking -- when he was not standing sentry or fetching dry cleaning -- was a reprieve.

Detective Vecchio had occasionally provided that, with his ranting and bluster. The Consulate had always felt somehow smaller after he had swept in and then back out, as though he had expanded it upon entry and taken all of that motion and noise and color with him as he left, contracting it to something less than it had been.

For the first time, Turnbull felt a strange sense of... of...

He was not sure what it was. Sorrow, of a sort, perhaps. Despite not really knowing the man, he knew enough of Detective Vecchio from both rumor and observation to know that he was a good man; loyal and vivacious, generous of his time and attention to those he cared about. He could only hope that the man would come back safe and intact.

"Wonder if I'm gonna live through this," muttered the replacement, and it seemed an unpleasant kind of mind-reading.

Honestly, Turnbull felt it a legitimate worry. There was a rather startling amount of gun-play involved when Benton Fraser was on the streets; it had boggled Turnbull. Even in a major metropolis, the likelihood of a police officer having to draw their firearm was slim, and even more rarely did it result in shots fired. The fact that Fraser refused to carry ammunition in his weapon should have suggested less gun-play, but that wasn't the case.

Turnbull frowned, internally. "If nothing else, Detective, Constable Fraser can also be described as cat-like."

The man snorted. "Always lands on his feet? Doesn't help me if I'm two feet away, flattened on a sidewalk."

"I had meant that he appears to have multiple lives."

"Still doesn't help me. So he's Mario. There's a reason why no one ever plays Luigi, Turnbull, you know what I mean?"

Turnbull offered a somewhat vacant smile. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean, no."

"Yeah, well. You're no princess."

The statement made no _sense_. Turnbull was used to the bizarre, he'd lived with it for far longer than he was willing to remember. He couldn't fathom why this particular _brand_ of it inspired the want to throttle something. He opted for glancing down himself, smoothing his already-pristine uniform just once.

"I'm pleased that you noticed, Detective." It was perfectly pleasant, well-composed, even if he felt as though he'd tossed the words carelessly in the air.

There was a coursing pang of satisfaction to get a look in return that seemed to equally ask what planet Turnbull was from.

 

 

Putting his desk back together after Detective 'Vecchio' had swept through was...

Well, it wasn't paperwork.

They were still getting used to the new Consulate, in some ways. The man didn't come back for a few days, and when he had, he'd brought with him Constable Fraser. Along with fire. The pronouncement had been rather startling, and on a day where Turnbull was already feeling more than a little disconnected. As painstakingly as Turnbull had been arranging the place, if it was to burn to the ground, the very least he could do was save one piece of it. An inspirational one, to boot. More than the Inspector's interior decorator would have stretched to, he was sure. Of course, the man was Scandinavian, so perhaps Turnbull shouldn't judge; he couldn't be expected to share the Royalism of a Commonwealth citizen who'd experienced the full majesty of...

Turnbull sighed, the mental tangent dying somewhere in the middle.

In any case, the two most certainly non-interchangeable detectives did seem to share one thing in common. Turnbull hoped for their sakes that the insanity that seemed to bleed from the streets of this place would not bleed so far as to bring them to harm.

He put on his frilly apron, fully prepared for and unsurprised by the derisive sigh as Thatcher walked by. It didn't matter. The place hardly needed dusting, given that they'd _just moved in_ , but he was determined to find something to clean.

Turnbull jumped when the front door slammed open. It made for an undoubtedly vacant-looking stare when the new Detective slopped in, soaking wet, wincing with each motion.

The man pulled from his pocket what was bafflingly but assuredly a _rubber duck_ and tossed it onto Turnbull's desk. " _Luigi_ ," he said simply, gesturing with both hands.

Blinking rapidly, Turnbull opened his mouth to reply; he found nothing.

He didn't need to. The detective stalked off. "...I'm gonna go use the can."

Turnbull pinched the bridge of his nose and resolved not to look at his floor for a few seconds.

At least now he had something legitimate to clean.


End file.
